


I Cannot Fall Because It Is Not My Choice

by TheColorBlue



Category: Axis Powers Hetalia
Genre: M/M, multiplicity, plurality
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-10-20
Updated: 2011-10-20
Packaged: 2017-10-24 19:42:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,207
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/267141
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheColorBlue/pseuds/TheColorBlue
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>[Please note, this was written by <a href="http://metallic-sweet.livejournal.com/158847.html">Metallic_Sweet</a>, and not by myself, TheColorBlue. This fic was reposted with Metallic_Sweet's permission, so please direct all comments and appreciation to her ^_^]</p><p>Originally for the Plushenko is Russia request on <a href="http://hetalia-kink.livejournal.com/profile"><img/></a><a href="http://hetalia-kink.livejournal.com/"><b>hetalia_kink</b></a>. Within a Body, there may be more than one existence. Evgeni Plushenko had always been there, just as Russia and Ivan always had been, and they always would be. It did not mean they had to be alone.</p><div class="center"></div>
            </blockquote>





	I Cannot Fall Because It Is Not My Choice

"Multiplicity is a state in which many people share one physical body. Being multiple means that one exists as part of a group of people, with all the benefits and drawbacks and chances for talents or interesting natures that any other group of people would have."  
\- _The Layman's Guide to Multiplicity_  


  
The truth was that Evgeni Plushenko had actually existed. In fact, he had always existed for as long as Ivan Braginski had. After all, Ivan Braginski was another, another existence alongside Russia. But Evgeni Plushenko was not completely concrete, not completed tied down.

Russia and the statesman Ivan Braginski were tied down. Evgeni Plushenko was not.

As Evgeni Plushenko, he was free to be ridiculous. He was free to smile and laugh, snark and argue. He couldn't do those things as Ivan or Russia because those two weren't free, were entwined so much more intricately than Plushenko could ever be. Evgeni Plushenko would not be tied down; Ivan and Russia refused to let him be.

But it takes months of planning to make sure that both Ivan and Russia can take a back seat for a single competition, even a couple years for international affairs like the Olympics. He--well, really, they--got tired of it for a while, the stress and the dance every breathing moment.

So, for a few years, they agreed, and Plushenko stepped away. Ivan gave him a cover story, occasionally appeared as him, and Russia watched and tried to make time for Plushenko to come out. And it was painful, like cutting off a friend, and Ivan had yearned for the bite of the cold air and Russia had yearned for the music of the ice dances. Evgeni Plushenko was an existence, tangible at least within their Body, and he could not fade, not when he did not want to.

(For Russia and Ivan had forced that before, sometimes out of necessity, sometimes out of madness, and that had never, ever ended well.)

And, so, Plushenko could not step away.

 _I skate for Russia._

 _I skate as Russia._

 _I am Russia._

\--

Evgeni Plushenko knows the one inside of the Body called Ivan Braginski best. Of course, interacting with Ivan means that he interacts almost synonymously with Russia, but the two are different. Ivan likes the cute stuffed animals the girls throw onto the ice after he performs; Russia likes the snarky comments Evgeni voices because he can't say his own thoughts aloud. Ivan gets really tired and sad sometimes, and that's when Evgeni knows he has to temper Russia, who only seems to know how to get angry.

Ivan has been around much longer than Evgeni, and so Ivan sometimes teaches him. Shows him how to interact with the world. Points out other cultures and types of people. Teaches him to smile, to shield his eyes, to enjoy himself. Ivan makes Evgeni see. And so, for Ivan, Evgeni cannot fall.

Obviously, Russia is the dominant person in the Body. He is always around, even when Evgeni is skating before the crowd's eyes, but Evgeni knows Russia is there because he has to be. After all, Russia is the Nation, the Mother, and he cares for Evgeni as no one else could. If Evgeni is hurt, Russia will heal him. If Evgeni is sick, Russia will nurse him. And so, for Russia, Evgeni cannot fall.

 _I cannot fall._

 _I must be the best._

 _For us, I am the best._

\--

The house that they live in back in Moscow belongs to Ivan Braginski. Evgeni knows that it is an old place, probably much older than he has been conscious. After all, Russia occasionally talks about the Duchy and the Mongol and Kievan Rus' and not even Ivan can say for certain he remembers farther back than the Tsars. Evgeni sometimes finds, in the rare moments that he is left to care for the Body, pieces of those past ages in the house: a stone floor under the rug in the living room, a long sword underneath the bed.

The change (for that is all he can call it, having existed only for a few decades) is his fault. He notices, from the eyes of the Body, the strange way that the one called France pauses as Russia interacts with him at the 2010 Olympics, peering at the Body through narrow eyes. Russia, who knows France but doesn't adore him like Ivan does, murmurs something that is light but threatening, but France only backs down, doesn't stop and look away, not for a very long time.

And, when Evgeni is waiting to get onto the ice, he can feel France watching, and the thought suddenly occurs to him (not from Ivan, definitely not from Russia) that maybe France is like them. A Nation, but, maybe, there are Others in his body as well. The thought is a distracting one, and Evgeni has to shove it aside, deliberately ignore the gaze he can feel burning into the Body's skin.

 _There is nowhere to go but up._

\--

The Body, of course, has needs. Ivan normally takes care of that sort of thing, and Russia satisfies the more extreme and inhuman tendencies the Body's nature makes it prone to. Evgeni isn't really needed to take care of the Body aside from the exercise that coincides with skating. It's not really something he thinks about much, unless there is pain. Russia normally comes out then. He can handle pain best.

Sometimes, if Evgeni goes into what the Japanese call a "zen" mode and is able to be alone with himself (or, well, as alone as he can ever hope to get), he realizes how much he desires companionship. Not sexual or anything like what Ivan sometimes gets on about. Evgeni wants someone to talk to. Someone to spend time with while in the Body. A friend, maybe. Russia laughs at him and tells him all friends betray them. Ivan smiles, sadly, and says not to wish for such impossible things.

Evgeni, after the medal ceremony in Vancouver, is let alone to the body for a while, Russia locked up and screaming insults and Ivan meticulously fuming and plotting. Evgeni, however, is just disappointed and bitter, so he gets to be in control of the Body because all he'll do is snark and kick up tufts of snow on the way back to the Olympic village. Evgeni, unlike Russia and Ivan, can't start a campaign for nuclear war.

(And Evgeni doesn't want a nuclear war. He's eccentric, not mad, thank you.)

Sulking as he is, Evgeni fails to notice that he has been joined in the courtyard. The only thing that alerts Evgeni to the presence of another person this late at night is an abrupt _plu-thunk_ of a bottled water from the many Coca-Cola-funded vending machines in the courtyard. Turning, he sees the Nation of France, crouched in front of the vending machine as he extricates the bottle of Aquabona and turns then, fluidly, to face Evgeni.

"Hello, Russia."

Evgeni freezes. It's instinctive, like deer in the headlights, blinded but bracing for the incoming doom. France shakes his bottled water and scowls at its frozen state.

"Or are you just Plushenko right now?"

Evgeni blinks, shrugs. There really isn't much he can say. Russia or Ivan always deal with France. Evgeni just skates. France observes him for a moment before taking a few steps forward, looking up slightly with their height difference.

"It's alright, you know," he says after a moment, a ghost of his usually sultry smile on his lips. "I love Ivan, too."

Which, Evgeni thinks, is not the most reassuring statement. After all, Moscow was once invaded by the man in front of him. Evgeni shifts his weight onto the ball of his feet, his hands still deep in the pockets of his jacket.

"Why are you talking to me?"

France shrugs, his shoulders lifting the French team's scarf around his neck. It's a nice scarf, Evgeni thinks; looks like it's made of cashmere. The scarf Russia and Ivan wear when they're in the Body is made out of a thick but rough cotton. Evgeni thinks it itches.

"I do the same thing," France answers in such a soft tone that Evgeni is surprised the Body's hearing picks up the words. "At the ballet. We... still dance there. From time to time, we are there."

Evgeni doesn't respond for a long time. France tosses his frozen bottle of water from hand to hand. His gloves are the same fabric as his scarf, blue and red against white background. He looks good in red and blue and white, Evgeni decides, and he sees for the first time why Ivan is so in love with this man.

He's beautiful.

\--

The next day, Evgeni is buying a breakfast bar and orange juice from the small convenience store when France comes in, dressed in black business attire but wearing the French team's scarf and gloves still. They exchange smiles, and Evgeni feels the thrill of a shared secret for the first time.

France holds up a couple of newspapers, large and bulky things. " _Le Figaro and Aujourd'hui en France_ ," he says, the papers too large to show both their titles at the same time. "I still like the paper copies more than the Internet. They're easier to shuffle through; no load time."

Evgeni nods. He senses he's not talking to France right now. _Francis Bonnefoy_ , Ivan supplies from where he watches just behind Evgeni in the Body. Evgeni brightens slightly, relaxing a bit; talking to Nations besides Russia always makes him feel self-conscious.

"But you are very addicted to your BlackBerry," Evgeni jests, nodding to the little pouched attached securely to Francis's fashionable briefcase. "It is much more convenient than carrying around all of that."

Francis just laughs merrily, and, yes, Evgeni definitely sees why Ivan is so hopelessly in love with this person before him. "Oh, well, something old, something new; something borrowed, something blue. It does not have to be for weddings."

Evgeni laughs abruptly, grinning, and he forgets for a moment that all of the headlines on the sports pages are about his loss the night before.

(He even, he realizes later, forgets to feel lonely.)

\--

Evgeni notices, at the next World Conference that Russia attends following the Olympics, that France, while well-dressed and prone to lewd jokes as usual, has a distinctly restless, unhappy air about him. They don't have much time to talk or even interact alone, and Evgeni worries and worries and worries until Russia gets fed up with him and shoves him up into a tiny corner of the mind for the rest of the day's proceedings.

Russia, however, is not a despot, and he lets Evgeni have free reign of the Body for the rest of the night once business is done. Both Russia and Ivan are tired, retreating back to their own places in the consciousness to recuperate from the proceedings, and Evgeni doesn't envy them. He wouldn't trade his own existence for theirs, not even if he was on the wrong end of a gun barrel.

Sighing, Evgeni pulls on Russia and Ivan's characteristic large jacket and trudges in their heavy boots to the hotel elevator to go down to the third floor. The Body had a headache and something of a cramped lower back, and he wants nothing more than a nice workout in the hotel's gym and then maybe a long soak in the indoor jacuzzi he'd noticed on the hotel's website.

The elevator, however, stops on the sixth floor, the doors sliding open to reveal France and another Nation who Evgeni thinks is Germany. They get into the elevator, body language screaming discomfort at each other's presence, and automatically use Evgeni as a sort of barrier between them. Evgeni wonders if he should say something; it's rather awkward.

Luckily, it's only three more floors down when the elevator doors open again, and Evgeni gets out with even (no, never hurried) steps. France gets out with him, and Germany disappears behind the doors.

" _Ce salaud!_ " France snarls as soon as the doors are fully shut, stomping his foot (stiletto boot, heavy toe) on the carpeted floor. "I want to carve his balls off and then feed them to him raw!"

Evgeni blinks, his mouth open in a round _O_ , as France rounds on him, clearly meaning to continue his rant until he catches the expression on the Body's face. France visibly does a double-take before his harsh, blood-thirsty expression softens and he manages a ghost of his usual smile.

"Oh, Plushenko," he demures, reaching up and running his fingers through his hair. "I thought it was Ivan."

The safest thing to do seems to be to smile and shrug. France--no, Francis--takes a deep breath and sighs heavily, seeming to deflate. He looks sick again, the same restless, unhappy air once more lingering over him.

"I suppose Ivan's resting?" Francis inquires listlessly.

Evgeni pauses, checking. "I could get him easily, if you like."

Francis pauses, too, seeming to waver in his decision before nodding. Evgeni smiles before prodding Ivan to the front--

\--just in time to avoid being in the Body when Francis shoves himself bodily flush up against Ivan, lips demanding everything that couldn't be said with words. Evgeni tries to back up, but he's caught, too close to Ivan's surprise and Francis's display of emotion. And he can't escape because he also wants to be there in a way, senses that it's not just Ivan that Francis wants.

Evgeni suspects Francis wants Ivan and Evgeni both.

\--

It's summer in Moscow when Russia--not Evgeni, not even Ivan--slips up.

Russia has a temper. Everyone knows this. He's a bit like an overgrown child, but that's only because he never got to understand why the truth can't be the truth and falseness sometimes has to take its place. The problem is that he is dominant, and that, when he loses his temper, Ivan and Evgeni cannot stop him.

The Body boards the flight to Paris, Russia in charge. Ivan and Evgeni stand back, pushed back, and can only wait.

\--

Francis is at his apartment, the same little place that he's lived in since Ivan can remember. It's neat and feminine, and Russia uses the key that Francis gave Ivan to unlock the front door without knocking. Francis is curled up on the couch, and he sits up, hissing like an angry cat.

"Russia, you are not invited."

Evgeni winces inwardly when Russia simply storms over (for Russia can either creep or storm) and lifts Francis from the tangle of blankets, tearing open the buttoned shirt to reveal the bite marks and scratches, bruises in all the wrong places. Francis whimpers and squirms, and Evgeni can see how hard it is for Francis to stop France or an Other from coming out, from instinctively fighting Russia -

\- and, suddenly, Evgeni is in front, the Body's hands gripping Francis hard enough to leave a new set of bruises. He releases the Body's grasp, and Francis scrambles back, falling onto the ground and taking the covers over his head in a vain attempt to protect himself. It burns Evgeni and he wishes that Russia wasn't Russia so that he could punch him for his rashness.

"Francis? Francis, it's Plushenko. Evgeni. It was Russia earlier; he got mad, and -"

But the person looking up at Evgeni in the other body's blue eyes isn't Francis. It's not France, either. It's someone else, the one that's raw, the one that Evgeni guesses he's been waiting to meet.

It's the dancer, the one who they'd read about online that morning, who had been assaulted. There had been a picture, and Evgeni had known, with that Fleur-de-Lys tattoo bare on his shoulder for all the world to see, the dancer was going to have to be buried, put away, restrained for a very long time.

Evgeni sits down with the man, this poor creature, and he wonders if, one day, he will be like him.

"I understand," Evgeni whispers, reaching out and taking the shivering Body in his arms, speaking softly to the dancer's ear. "And I'm so sorry..."

\--

And, sometime later, it's winter in Sochi.

Today is one of those rare days when Evgeni gets to see Russia smile, really smile. France and Russia are lying together, and France is still asleep, his long hair half-covering his face. Russia spoons around him, nose resting in the crook of France's shoulder, breathing in the other Body's scent, relishing it, memorizing it.

Russia, smiling, thinks that France looks like a sunflower. And Evgeni, awake for the ice, wants to see the sunflower dance.

\--

The ice is where Evgeni is God.

Everyone has somewhere that they are most at home in. Russia is the snow, the harshness of winter and the beauty in a single snowflake. Ivan is the laughing commander, crystallized in certainty, hopelessly romantic. And, underneath the lights and for those moments when he can put the Body airborne, Evgeni is on top of the world.

It's not really about winning, no, not really. It's not about the cameras and the lights and all the screaming fans. It's about freedom, that moment of epiphany when Evgeni is Evgeni, and the crowd dims and only this--the ice, the air, the adrenaline--exists.

And, maybe, if Evgeni had just had that, he would have gone back to sleep in the Body by now, have slipped away into obscurity in the many existences of Others that Russia and Ivan have fielded. After all, an ice skater, like a dancer, has a short lifespan. Their sort live so long as the height of youth, and Evgeni wonders what it would be like, to just fade away as if he was never in the Body at all, and, he thinks, maybe, that's why Russia can't let anything go.

Evgeni's dancer is there, bright blue eyes and wide, thrilling smile. There isn't just the ice anymore, just as the dancer isn't just the dancer but Francis and France and the memories of that Body's Others past. Evgeni will not fade any more than he will let his dancer fade, and, as he steps from ice to land, there is gold and blue waiting, never fading, because Evgeni Plushenko will be damned before he ever falls.

 _I cannot fall  
because it is not my choice  
but give me a moment  
and let me fly_

\--

 **End Notes**  


Originally for the Plushenko is Russia request on [](http://hetalia-kink.livejournal.com/profile)[**hetalia_kink**](http://hetalia-kink.livejournal.com/) , this fic became an attempt at writing about Russia and France as plurals, people sharing one body. This concept is one that was introduced to me recently by a good friend of mine, and it is a point of interest and puzzlement for me. I wrote this in an attempt to better understand how multiple existences can occur within a singular physical form, which remains a very foreign concept to me as a single. I hope that this piece does not offend any multiples reading this, and that is, at least, an interesting piece for all reading.

For more information on multiples/plurals, [here](http://www.astraeasweb.net/plural/) [are](http://community.livejournal.com/multiplicity/profile) a couple of sites, including "The Layman's Guide to Multiplicity".

**Author's Note:**

> Again, please direct all comments and appreciation to [Metallic_Sweet](http://metallic-sweet.livejournal.com/158847.html).


End file.
